


SVS-23: A Question of Intent

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair investigate a drive-by shooting. SVS First Season Finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SVS-23: A Question of Intent

## SVS-23: A Question of Intent

by The Unusual Suspects

Author's website:  <http://www.squidge.org/5senses/>

The Sentinel Slash Virtual Season (SVS) is based on characters and concepts developed by, and belonging to, Pet Fly Productions. The episodes of SVS are intended for private personal enjoyment only. No money is being made, or will be allowed to be made, by any of the SVS authors or by FiveSenses Inc. from the writing and distribution of these episodes. Any original characters introduced in an SVS episode belongs to the episode author and to FiveSenses Inc, and should not be used without their permission. 

Author's Notes, or, Who are The Unusual Suspects?   
\--Alyjude dangled participles, plot threads and Jim 'n Blair.   
\--Orange852 littered the field with plot, case and characters.   
\--WoD organized and outlined it into a story.   
\--MrsHamill did the actual, y'know, writing.   
\--Fox went "yeah, that" and "no, NOT that" and "here, what about this?"   
If there's something right with this episode, it's somebody else's fault. WE ARE ALL INNOCENT!

Note on Safe Sex: Episodes of SVS may contain depictions of consensual m/m sex. These depictions may or may not be accompanied by specific mention of items necessary for safe and healthy intercourse. It is the intention of FiveSenses Inc. and all SVS authors that even when such items are not explicitly mentioned, their use is to be assumed as a matter of course. All of us at FiveSenses Inc. are aware of the risks of unprotected sex in today's world, and strongly advocate the practice of safe sex, including the use of condoms and other protective devices.

This story is a sequel to: SVS-22: Fall From Grace 

* * *

Jim sat on the stairs, in the dark. 

The night swirled and hovered, seeping into him, filling him with a mind-numbing void, with a piercing desolation honed by the quiet breaths and thrumming heartbeat of the sleeping man upstairs. Cold clutched at his heart and despair clawed at his throat. 

Jim sat. 

He wanted to return to bed, to the warmth and comfort of his bed and Blair, but his leaden legs refused to allow him to stand. He had done it again, and this time, he had probably gone too far. Once again, he had let his anger -- his fears -- dictate his actions, closing himself away from the ones he cared about. 

What did he fear? Losing Blair. Not being able to protect Blair. But Blair didn't need protecting, not really. Nobody in their right mind thought that, certainly not Blair himself. Not even Simon, not any more. It was only Jim who saw the need to protect, to... to blanket. To smother; to shield Blair from all the nastiness that he already knew about! So where did all this over-protectiveness come from? 

Blair. It came from his wanting Blair. Everything Blair had to offer, Jim soaked up and wanted more. More. More. Never enough. Nevereverever enough. Would Blair wake up one day and realize Jim had simply drained him dry? 

Would he wonder what he could have done with his life if not for Jim? 

But Blair loved him. He knew that. Shouldn't that be enough? 

With rediscovered candor, Jim admitted to himself that knowing was not enough, not by a long shot. Jim climbed to his feet, swallowed heavily, and forced a shaky breath into his lungs. Turning, he made his slow, painful way back upstairs. Where he would wake his partner -- his _partner_! -- and they would talk. 

Blair lay curled on his side, hands tucked under his chin, face obscured by his dark curls, shrouded in the stillness of sleep. Jim stood at the top of the stairs and indecisively chewed on his lower lip. Should he wait until morning? It had, after all, been a busy day. 

In the silence, the gunshots echoed loudly from the street below. 

Blair's head jerked up, sleepy eyes groggily meeting Jim's. "Wha...?" 

"Gunshots," Jim said unnecessarily, hastily yanking a pullover from his dresser. Blair leapt out of bed and stumbled to the closet, where he grabbed his jeans. By the time Jim was stepping into his loafers, Blair was hopping on one foot, shoving the other into a shoe. 

Jim suddenly realized he was taking a breath to order Blair to stay in the loft, where it was safe. Gulping, he squashed that impulse, but not in time to keep Blair from catching wind of it in his expression. "You ready?" he barked out, just as Blair started to say, "Dammit, Ellison, if you tell me to --" 

Blinking, Blair struggled to shift gears. "Ah, yeah... I'm ready, man. Let's hit it." 

* * *

Blair took some comfort from the fair weather -- early morning Cascade could be COLD -- as he pelted down the stairs after Jim and charged out the front door of their building. Just like the last time... only this time, he had heard the shots as well. He watched as Jim turned his head back and forth, like a hunting dog gaining the scent. "This way," Jim said, somewhat unnecessarily, as even Blair could hear the sound of sirens wafting from that direction -- unlike last time, away from the water. 

A police car with flashing lights had come to a stop in front of the twenty-four-hour 7-11 two blocks from the loft, which Jim and Blair often raided for late night refills of ice cream and condoms (not necessarily at the same time). As they approached, Blair made out a uniformed patrol officer with his gun drawn, cuffing someone who lay face-down on the pavement. A car rested perpendicular to the street against the curb, the driver's-side door hanging open at a skewed angle, its side and trunk riddled with bullet holes. The cop looked up as Jim and Blair came running around the corner; he leveled his sidearm on them, ordering them to stop. 

Blair skidded to a halt and nearly bashed into Jim's back as Jim stopped abruptly, showing his ID. "Detective Jim Ellison, Major Crimes. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. Can we assist?" 

_And what exactly did "partner" mean, really?_ The thought rose unbidden in Blair's mind; stifling it quickly, he focused on the patrolman squinting at Jim's badge in the hideous orange glow of the parking lot lights. "Sure, Detective," the officer -- Owen, Blair could see on his name tag -- responded curtly. "Check the car, would you? There's another unit on the way." 

"Roger that," Jim murmured, jogging away from the cop, who turned back to his prisoner. Blair followed Jim to the door of the car in front of the 7-11's parking lot. He could hear a low weeping and moaning from inside the vehicle. 

Jim approached cautiously, his weapon drawn, identifying himself clearly. "Cascade Police. What's the problem here?" 

"Oh God... oh God... get an ambulance, Jannel, oh God... there's blood everywhere..." The voice was male, obviously young, and completely distraught. From the way Jim wrinkled up his nose and grimaced, Blair could tell he smelled blood -- hell, _Blair_ could smell it and he was no Sentinel. 

Jim motioned for Blair to help the driver and moved around to the passenger side. Up close, under the sodium-vapor lamps, Blair could see that the distressed young man was in the driver's seat. He was cradling a young woman to his chest; there was indeed blood and gore everywhere, and Blair couldn't tell if the young man was hurt as well. 

Jim was leaning in from the other side, gently checking the girl's throat for a pulse. He grimaced and shook his head at Blair, then swallowed and shook his head again, sharply. It was obvious from his glazing eyes that the smells, the noise of the approaching units, and the unearthly glow from the lamps were getting to him. 

Blair pitched his voice low, speaking to Jim calmly and evenly. "Come on, man, snap out of it. Focus." Then, slightly louder, he added to the driver, "Are you hurt anywhere, sir?" 

Raising his pale, bloodstained, distraught face to Blair, the young man said, "No, no, Jannel, oh, God, please get help..." 

"The ambulance is on its way," Blair assured him, knowing from the grim expression on Jim's face that it was too late for Jannel already. 

* * *

Jim blinked, shaking himself slightly at Blair's words, trying to focus on the task at hand and wrenching himself from the draw of Blair's voice. Withdrawing from the reeking car helped -- leaving the driver in his partner's hands for the moment, Jim stood up straight and examined the scene carefully. He heard the sobs of the driver and the moans of the handcuffed suspect on the ground; smelled blood and gunpowder, sweat and fear. Bullet holes marched along the passenger-side door in a macabre parade, wrapping around the vehicle in what appeared to have been an attempt to shoot out the gas tank. Jim turned toward the intersection, scanning the roadway slowly. The cluster of shell casings under the blinking traffic light told him all he needed to know about where the holes had come from. Dialing up sight, Jim counted six casings, nine-millimeter, with the Winchester mark on the bottom. He winced slightly at the flashing lights of the arriving backup, and dialed sight down to normal; another squad car had pulled up, followed by at least two more units approaching from the distance. 

Jim moved towards the uniformed cop, who had apparently been first on the scene, and called out, "Need an ambulance over here." 

The young cop hauled his prisoner up before turning to Jim. "Got it covered. One's on the way. How many?" 

Jim sighed. "One for shock. Looks like the other's already gone." 

"Damn." 

Another cop emerged quickly from the second squad car as the first officer pushed his suspect against the hood of his unit. Jim blinked, looking between the two uniformed men. 

"You okay, Jeff?" the second one asked. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mick," the first one answered. Narrowing his focus, Jim looked at their nametags, to find they both read 'Owen' -- 'J.Owen' and 'M.Owen.' 

"Uh, you guys related?" Jim asked. 

"Yeah," the first one, Jeff, answered. "Yeah. Twins. This is Detective, um, what was it again?" 

"Ellison. I live right around the corner and heard the shots." 

"Oh -- I was wondering where you'd come from," Jeff said. He opened his unit's back door and seated the cuffed and moaning man on the back bench seat. "You did call for an ambulance and backup, right, Mick?" 

"On their way, bro," Mick replied. "You want I should call it in to Central?" 

"Yeah. Homicide needs to be notified." 

"Fuck." 

"Yeah." Jeff turned to Jim. "I gotta secure the area. Would you watch my man here? I nailed him trying to flee the scene." 

"I didn't do nothing, man!" the young man exclaimed. His face was streaked with tears, and he couldn't have been more than eighteen. "I -- I heard the shooting, and the cars... God, man, I just wanna go home!" 

"Yeah, yeah, it's all right, just cool your heels, man, no one's accusing you of anything," Jeff said, turning away before he muttered, "yet." 

Rolling his eyes, Jim crouched before the young man. "Hey there. I'm Jim Ellison. What's your name, son?" 

"Danny," he replied, sniffing. "Danny Oats. I didn't do nothing, man, you gotta believe me!" 

"Hey, hey, it's all right," Jim soothed, patting the boy's knee. "This is just standard operating procedure. How old are you, Danny?" 

"I -- I'm seventeen. Last month," Danny replied, beginning to calm down under Jim's patient gaze. 

"Well, happy birthday," Jim smiled. "Okay. Now, you're going to have to tell this story a lot over the next few days, so take your time, and tell me what you saw. Try to remember everything, okay?" 

The boy nodded, gulping back his anxiety. Peripherally, Jim was aware of the ambulance arriving and of other police units pulling up. He could hear Blair murmuring reassurances to the driver of the car, and was grateful all over again for his partner's presence. 

Pulling his attention back to the young man before him, Jim smiled encouragingly. Danny smiled tremulously back and said, "Well, I was just... it was late, you know? And I was on-line with my posse. We was playing in a MUD, you know?" Jim didn't know -- at least, he wasn't sure -- but nodded for Danny to continue. "Anyway, I was out of smo -- I mean, I -- I..." 

Jim patted Danny's knee again and grinned. "Those things'll kill you, you know," he said lightly. "Don't worry about it, son. Just go on." 

"Oh -- okay. Well, anyway, I put down my time and walked down here to get -- to get some more, you know? And I had just come out of the store, when I saw these two cars. They was on the other side of the street." 

Jim turned slightly to see where Danny was indicating. "So, you saw the two cars, and they were going east on Fowler? Is that right?" 

"Is east that way? Away from Ocean Drive?" At Jim's nod, Danny agreed. "Yeah, then. They was headed east, and, like, _bookin_ '. That's what got me looking at them, you know? They must have just come around the corner from Ocean and they tires was like squealing. Then... then I heard these sounds -- a bunch of them, like, I didn't even know what they was until I heard that glass blow up. It didn't sound like no gun, you know?" 

"What do you mean, Danny?" Jim asked. 

"Well, it didn't sound like TV. You know. It was, uh, more like, oh, I dunno, like a car sound. Quieter like. But when the glass blew up on the one car, on that one over there, it, like, just flew over and slammed into the curb, _pow_! And the other car just took off." 

Jim nodded. "That's good, Danny, that's very good. You concentrate on what you saw, try to remember every little piece, okay? Do you remember what the other car looked like?" 

"Um, it was a hatchback. Maybe a Celica? Real light colored, like white or yellow. I'm not real sure, 'cause when I figured out what was going on, I, like, just took a header behind the trash can over there." 

"Well, I can understand that!" Jim laughed. "I think I would have, too." 

"Hey, Jim, they're getting the driver out now." Blair said, as he came up behind Jim and crouched down next to him. "Who's your friend?" 

"Blair Sandburg, this is Danny Oats," Jim introduced. "Blair's my partner, Danny." 

"Hey, man, how's it hanging?" Blair asked. By his abortive shoulder movement, Jim realized Blair had been about to extend his hand before realizing Danny was cuffed. 

Danny shrugged. "It be okay. It'll be okay, won't it, mister?" 

"Yeah, it's going to be fine, Danny," Jim said, standing back up as he heard one of the uniformed cops approach. It was Jeff Owen, and Jim stepped away from the squad car, allowing Blair to continue talking softly to the witness. 

"You got yourself an excellent witness here, Owen," Jim said quietly. 

Jeff looked beyond him, staring with narrowed eyes at the boy sitting half-in the car. "You think? I'm thinking he might be an excellent suspect, myself." 

Jim shook his head, holding down his impatience with cops who wouldn't see evidence if it were taped on to their noses. "No, no way. He was on the wrong side of the street, for one thing. For another, there's no weapon." 

The cop was clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, well, we'll see." 

Reaching back, Jim put a hand on Blair's shoulder and tugged slightly. Blair smiled at Danny and said good-bye, then stood next to his partner, stretching and yawning. An unmarked police car, lights flashing, heralded the arrival of Homicide, and Jim winced as he saw who climbed out of the car. Blair caught the wince and asked, "What? What is it?" 

"Oh, it's okay, I just know those guys. The white guy can be a pain in the ass when he wants to." 

Catching sight of Jim, the two men sauntered over, nodding to him. "Ellison," said the white guy. His shirt was rumpled, but he looked awake. 

"Glover," Ellison replied, nodding back. 

"What are you doing on the scene, Ellison?" asked his partner, a black man, who -- hands in his pockets, looking up at Jim -- came to stand behind Glover. His voice held only curiosity, so Jim relaxed a fraction. 

Glover's eyes flickered to Blair as Jim explained, and Jim felt his face harden. "This is Blair Sandburg, my partner," he said. "Roy Glover and Phil Gibson, from Homicide." 

Gibson extended his hand and shook Blair's, while Glover ignored it. "Hey, Gibson and Glover, I bet you guys get a lot of ragging, huh?" Blair said, with a tired smile. 

"Yeah, well, we actually work it," said Glover sourly. "What's the story here?" 

"Looks like a drive-by shooting," Jim said. "Might be a gang thing -- victims are a white male, no external injuries, and a black female, gunshot to the neck. You might want to talk with Owen, over there -- he was first on the scene. One eye-witness." 

"Drive-by?" Glover looked skeptical as he hitched his pants up over his substantial belly. "What makes you think that?" 

"Well, there're at least six casings in the intersection," Jim replied. 

"You counted the shots?" Glover demanded. 

"No, I was too busy getting dressed. But I see..." Jim cut himself off, suddenly realizing how much he was revealing. "Look, I've been here a while, I've had time to look around." 

"Yeah, well, don't look around any more. This ain't Major Crimes' set, you see? We'll take care of it and call you for your statements later." Glover stalked away, heading for the uniforms, while Gibson shrugged and hurried after him. 

"C'mon, Chief," Jim said, wearily. "Let's get home and try to get some more sleep. There's nothing else we can do here." 

"I'm down with that, man," Blair yawned. 

* * *

Morning came far too soon. While Blair had washed the blood off his hands and arms, Jim had left a voicemail for Simon, letting him know what had happened -- and telling him not to expect them before ten. But even sleeping in until almost nine wasn't enough after the day and night before. 

They dragged over breakfast, speaking in grunts to each other, and Jim was pretty sure Blair's eyes didn't open once -- not that he could tell, hidden as they were behind an unruly mop of hair. By the time the coffee hit his bloodstream, though, Jim was feeling more like a human and less like a Cro-Magnon, and even Blair had tied his hair back. 

A familiar bellow assaulted them as they unloaded at Jim's desk. "Ellison! Sandburg! My office!" Simon yelled, and both men rolled their eyes before making their way across the bullpen. Brown was on the phone, but waved at them, and Megan looked up from interviewing a bored-looking teen-aged regular on the shoplifting circuit to smile a hello. 

"Close the door," Simon said as they entered his office. "Nice of you to join us this morning, gentlemen." 

"I left you a voicemail," Jim began, but Simon waved his hand and cut him off. 

"No problem, no problem. I understand you two spent your usual quiet evening last night. Care to give me an update?" 

Jim exchanged a puzzled glance with Blair. "It was a shooting, sir. We heard the shots and ran down to see if we could assist. Looked like a drive-by; one dead, a young female. Homicide arrived and took over, and we went back to bed." 

"And that's the end of it." Frowning thunderously, Simon looked between the two men perched on his conference table. 

"Uh, yeah," Blair said, shooting a look at Jim. "That's really it. The poor kid's girlfriend died in his arms. Bad scene, man. But that's all it was." 

"Then would you mind explaining to me why I've got Fusilli in Homicide breathing down my neck?" While Jim and Blair looked at each other in puzzlement, Simon came around his desk with an open file folder. "Something about witness corruption. Something about scene tampering. Something about..." 

"What?!" Jim slid off the table, his forward momentum stopped by Blair's hand on his arm. 

"What's this all about, Simon?" Blair asked, in an equally furious tone. "We were there to _help_. Goddammit, this is..." 

Simon held his hand up for silence, and they settled down. "I don't understand what's happening either, gentlemen. But I do know that you will be high-tailing it down to Homicide and working with Gibson and Glover on this one. Ah-ah-ah," he added, glaring at them as they tried to interrupt. "Fusilli knows you two are above reproach. At least he'd better, after I read him the riot act this morning. But you were there, you were involved, and you _will_ be working the case -- _under_ Gibson and Glover." He continued to glare at them while handing Jim the manila folder. "I expect this nonsense cleared up as soon as possible. You have other cases pending." 

Sitting down, he opened his humidor and removed a cigar. It was clearly a dismissal -- one both Jim and Blair were used to -- so they closed the door quietly behind them. 

* * *

"Man, this sucks," Blair said, as he snatched his backpack up from under Jim's desk and followed his partner to the stairs. 

"Could be worse, Chief," Jim said sourly, holding open the door to the stairway. "They've got better coffee in Homicide. Better donuts too." 

"Yeah, and you sound exactly as thrilled about this as I am," Blair retorted. "We are going to have to kiss butt and suck up to those clowns, just because we did the right thing and responded to gunshots. This sucks." 

"You said that already," Jim said, holding back a smile at the surreptitious finger Blair shot him. One floor down and they were outside the Homicide Department. 

Captain Nick Fusilli of Homicide was physically the antithesis of Simon Banks: a short, skinny red-headed Italian with a beautiful light tenor voice. Where it counted, however, he and Simon could have been brothers. Fusilli took care of his unit, and woe betide anyone who messed with his people. He spied Jim and Blair the moment they appeared in the hallway outside the squad room, and motioned them into his office with a curt gesture. Seating them at his conference table, he called for coffee all around, then got straight to the point. 

"Banks informs me that you two are something like God's gift to police work," Fusilli said. "Now, I trust Banks, so I'm going to take him at his word. Thank you, Eddie." The young man who'd brought them coffee smiled and shut the door on his way out. "But I'm warning you right now, fuck up and I'll have your skins nailed to my wall. Clear?" 

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, sir," Jim said softly, tightly. Beside him, Blair sipped his coffee with a small murmur of appreciation. 

Fusilli stared silently at Jim for a few moments, sipping his own coffee. "There's been a lot of talk around the station about you two," he finally said. Jim heard Blair's soft intake of breath and stiffened. "I don't listen to rumors. I listen to facts. And the fact is you two have an excellent record. You seem to be able to make connections and dig out stuff that no one else can. I don't think I'm going out on a limb by saying you might be valuable on this case. Ellison, you especially -- since you seem to have made a favorable impression on the witness." 

Jim raised one eyebrow. "Oh, so he _is_ a witness, huh?" 

Sighing, Fusilli rubbed the back of his neck. "I also don't think I'm going out on a limb to tell you the initial work on this case was fucked. A lot of what happened was pure dumb luck, and not necessarily good luck either. Initial officer on the scene, Owen, spent too much time considering the witness to be the suspect, and so allowed the scene to become damaged. That witness is now hostile to Owen, and by extension, to my men. The survivor in the car is in shock, but we hope to get a statement out of him today, when he's released from the hospital." He shook his head ruefully. "Frankly, I could use your help, especially since you were on the scene so early." 

Jim looked at Blair, then took a sip of coffee. Behind his own coffee cup, Blair's lips were twitching upwards. "Well, we'll do what we can, sir. We're all in this together, after all," Jim said, ignoring the tiny snort of amusement from his partner. 

"Thank you," Fusilli said. "Gibson is with the witness right now, in room four. I'd appreciate it if you could lend him a hand." 

Jim stood with the captain, nodded once, and left -- Blair following. 

* * *

They ran into Glover on their way to the interrogation room. Apparently bent on some territorial posturing, he immediately started in on Jim. Curiously enough, all during his lecture on 'just who's going to be in charge here,' he glared at Blair -- not at Jim, who did manage to hold his temper in check. But Blair could see the teeth grind. 

Danny Oats sat in the interrogation room with Gibson and a tape recorder. When Jim and Blair came into the room, he lit up like a Christmas tree, obviously relieved to see a friendly face. Jim grinned hello at him, then gave Blair a significant look -- one that Blair interpreted to mean "Work on him, get his story, I'll deal with the Neanderthals." So Blair straddled a chair and started talking to Danny while Jim pulled the other two detectives aside and started asking them questions. 

It was difficult to keep his mind split between the witness and his partner, but Blair was used to multi-tasking. And the young man was friendly -- well, to Blair and Jim anyway -- and eager to help. It was fairly simple to prod Danny for more information while listening with one ear to the conversation going on in the corner of the room. And Jim was continuing to maintain his temper, which might have been in part due to Gibson's influence. From what Blair had seen the night before, Gibson was the calmer member of the Homicide partnership. 

After a while, Danny wound down; there wasn't really anything else he could remember, he said, besides what he'd told Jim the night before. He hadn't been close enough to the two cars to get a good look at the assailant, and felt bad about that. 

"Hey, man, don't sweat it," Blair reassured him. "What you've been able to remember is great. And if you'd been closer, you might have gotten hurt. I'd rather have you living and talking than that." 

Danny smiled shyly, "Well, okay then, Blair. Thanks. So, what happens now?" 

"Well, we're going to take this tape down to be transcribed. That'll take an hour or so. Then we'll need you to read it -- and, listen up man, you read it carefully! -- and sign it. And that's it, until we catch the guy and he goes to court." 

"Hittin', man!" Danny said. "You mean, I could, like, have to testify and stuff? Like Court TV?" 

"Yeah, like Court TV," Blair agreed, laughing. Turning, he cleared his throat. "Um, Detectives? I believe this witness is through." 

Glover turned an icy stare on him, but Gibson smiled tightly. "Oh, thanks, then, uh, Sandburg, right?" 

"Yeah, that's right. Do you want me to take the tape downstairs?" The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, and Blair really wanted to escape it. He could _see_ Jim bristling, could practically feel the hostility rolling off him -- all aimed at Detective Glover. "Jim, man, cool it already," he murmured, soft enough so only a Sentinel could hear. 

"No, I'll give it to Eddie," Gibson said, popping the tape out of the machine. "He's our department secretary. Thank you very much for coming in, Mr. Oats. Can you hang around until we get this transcribed?" 

"Yeah, man, I can, I just gotta call my mom when I'm done. She works like a block from here, and she dropped me off this morning. After chewing my ass out for being out so late," Danny finished ruefully. 

Blair bopped Danny lightly on the head as they both laughed. "This is what you get, man, for staying on-line all night. C'mon, I'll get you situated in the waiting room with some munchies." 

When Blair returned from escorting Danny, Detective Gibson grabbed him and pointed him to the observation room next to the same interrogation room. "Your partner's in there," he said, snatching up a phone from the nearest desk and dialing. "Roy's working on Owen's statement. I just got a call from the driver and... Yeah, can I talk to Mr. Hallyard please? Detective Gibson from Cascade PD returning his call. Yeah, thanks." 

Blair waved to him and proceeded to the observation room. Jim was standing in the dark room, his arms crossed, glaring through the glass at Glover and Owen. With an irritated look, Blair grabbed and shook him by the shoulder. "Chill, man," he said softly. "Quit letting that asshole get to you." 

"It's cops like these that give the department a bad name," Jim replied in a disgusted tone, dismissing the two men sitting in the other room. "Owen is just dumber than dirt. And I'll bet he'll never really understand why he'll be walking a beat for the rest of his natural life." 

"Either that or he'll end up your boss some day," Blair said wryly. "Don't forget the Peter Principle." 

Jim shot him a dirty look. "Don't even dream that, junior," he growled. They turned their attention back to the room. 

"So you were on the cell phone?" Glover was asking. The tape recorder was going again, and he was also taking notes. 

"Yes, sir," Owen replied. "I was on my cell phone with my brother, Mick. He's got a beat that adjoins mine." 

"All right, continue," Glover said shortly. 

"At approximately two-thirty-five a.m., I heard the shots coming from the direction in which I was headed. As I turned east onto Fowler, I observed a car resting perpendicular to the roadway, with what appeared to be bullet holes in the trunk. I pulled into the parking lot of the 7-11 directly across from the scene and emerged from my vehicle." 

"Did you observe any other vehicle as you rounded the corner?" Glover asked. 

"No, sir." 

"Fine. Continue." 

"Since my cell phone was still live, my brother heard the situation, and began calling for backup for me," Owen said. "At that time, I observed a young black male attempting to flee the scene. I shouted for him to stop, pulled my sidearm and fired into the air. He stopped and I proceeded to cuff him. At that point, Detectives Ellison and Sandburg approached..." 

"He's not a detective," Glover growled. 

Blair put his hand on Jim's upper arm. Owen faltered in his recitation and said, "Excuse me?" 

"Sandburg. He's not even a fucking cop. Never mind. Did you approach the vehicle?" 

"No, sir, Detectives, I mean, Ellison and his -- partner went to the vehicle. When Detective Ellison returned, he confirmed with me that an ambulance had been dispatched and stated that the passenger in the vehicle appeared to be dead. At approximately two-forty a.m., my brother, Officer Mick Owen, arrived on scene, and shortly after that, the ambulance arrived along with other backup." 

"Good. Keep going." Blair gently kneaded Jim's iron-hard biceps as they continued to listen, but neither said a thing. 

"While I secured the area, I observed Detective Ellison speaking to my suspect. For some reason, he didn't consider the young man to be a suspect, even after I told him I'd caught the perp fleeing the scene." 

"What made you think your suspect was the perpetrator?" Glover asked, totally disinterested. 

"It was late, I had heard gunshots, and observed a young black man fleeing. That was enough probable cause for me." 

Jim made a disgusted noise and said, "I've heard enough. Come on." Rolling his eyes, Blair -- once again -- followed his partner out of the room. 

* * *

Gibson had set up a meeting with the driver of the car for one o'clock, which left them with a bit less than an hour for lunch. Neither of the two Homicide detectives asked -- and neither Jim nor Blair offered -- to eat lunch together, and Jim felt it was definitely time for a change of scene. He and Blair went back up to Major Crimes, and while Jim checked his messages and his email, Blair went to find something for them to eat. Fortunately, Simon had anticipated them, waving them into his office and providing sandwiches. Jim dug into his and, with his mouth full, said, "Have I told you lately that I love you, Simon?" 

Simon rolled his eyes. "No, and I'd appreciate your keeping that to yourself, Detective. I figured you would have had a rough morning with the Bobbsey Twins downstairs, plus I wanted to find out how it was going." 

Jim had just taken another huge bite, and waved to Blair to talk. "It's going," he answered sourly. "Those two are total cavemen, Simon. How on earth have they managed to stay employed this long?" 

Simon sighed and took a swig of his drink. "I think you, of all people, should understand tenure, Sandburg. Those two have got it, and we're stuck with them. Glover especially -- but he's got to be getting close to his twenty-five years. Unless they screw up and do something heinous enough to land them in jail, they'll be here until retirement. And may God will that it be soon." 

"Gibson's not too bad, sir," Jim said quietly. "But Glover is a total horse's ass. If it weren't for the fact that the forensic evidence completely contradicts his involvement, he'd be burying our only other eye-witness." Simon shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. "By the way, Chief," Jim continued, looking through the wrappings on the table for a pickle, "I meant to thank you for handling Danny's interrogation. You probably got more out of him than either of those two apes would have." Jim looked up to find both of his friends frozen in the act of eating and staring at him. "What?" he said irritably. "I can't find the pickle." 

"I didn't get one," Simon said, putting down his sandwich. "Sandburg, did I just hear him right?" 

Frowning and scratching the back of his neck, Blair said, "Yeah, you did." 

"Maybe you should take him home. I don't think he's feeling well," Simon continued, looking closely at Jim, who scowled. 

"Look, I'm getting enough grief out of jerks today, okay? I don't need more from you two," Jim grumped, then took another bite of his sandwich. Was it really that rarely that he thanked Blair for something? 

* * *

By one o'clock they were back at it again. The driver of the vehicle, Josh Hallyard, came in to the station along with his sister, Kristin. He was still pretty distraught, even after spending the night in the hospital under sedation; one look at his ravaged young face had Jim trying to convince Gibson to let Blair handle the statement. 

"Look, he's good with this," Jim urged. "He can get the guy calmed down so he'll talk better. You know what'll happen if your partner gets to him." 

While Blair watched from the sidelines -- too surprised to interfere -- Gibson shook his head and scowled. "All right, all right. Lemme see what I can do." 

What he could do, it turned out, was to have all four of them in the interview room, and let Blair take the lead. Glover stood in a corner and glowered, his sour, pudgy face reflecting his displeasure at events. Jim and Blair sat at the table across from the Hallyards, the tape recorder on, and Gibson took up a position by the window. 

Speaking softly, Blair started in. "Hey, Mr. Hallyard, Josh, I'm Blair Sandburg. I'm a civilian consultant to the department. This is Detective Jim Ellison, my partner, and over there is Detective Glover, and this is his partner, Detective Gibson. I know this is really hard for you, but we need to get everything we can as soon as possible; every little scrap of information could be essential. Do you understand that?" 

Josh lifted his head and his anguished eyes looked into Blair's. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I wanna get this guy, Mr. Sandburg," he said quietly, his voice thick. 

His sister wrapped one arm around his shoulders and whispered, "Oh, Josh, it'll be okay," then also looked at Blair, who reached out his hand to grasp Josh's forearm. 

"Call me Blair, please. And we _are_ going to get him. Miss Hallyard?" he asked, looking at the girl. 

She straightened and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes were red-rimmed and filled with pain as well. "Kristin, please," she replied. 

"Kristin," Blair turned to her with his best understanding, sympathetic smile, "are you all right staying here while your brother talks about this? You can't interrupt, you know; the tape is official and will be transcribed." 

"No, I'm fine, I understand. I can stay?" 

"Of course you can. You ready, Josh?" Behind him, Jim heard Glover shifting from foot to foot, impatiently, and began to consider casually rising and moving to gently wrap an electrical cord around the damn detective's fat neck. 

The statement was an ordeal for all concerned. Kristin was openly sobbing into Jim's handkerchief before it was over, and Josh also had tears running down his face. Blair allowed both of them to grip his hands during most of it, and was, to Jim's eyes, just as upset as they were by the end of it. 

Josh Hallyard and Jannel Patterson had been engaged for two months and couldn't have been happier. But when they announced that engagement to his parents the night before, the Hallyards had not been pleased over their son marrying someone Not Like Them -- not, in other words, a white girl from an upper-middle-class family. This was a nasty surprise for the young couple; ever since Kristin had introduced them, they'd taken flak from people who still believed different races shouldn't mix, but they'd never expected such hostility from their own families. Heated words were exchanged, and the formerly happy couple left the house in tears. 

They drove for a couple of hours down the coast, to a favorite pull-off spot of theirs, and just talked for a long time. Finally, at about one in the morning, they figured they'd better get back. It was around 2:30 or so, when they pulled off I-90 onto Ocean Drive, cutting through the deserted streets of Cascade, on their way to Jannel's house, when a small, sporty car, white or beige -- Josh was pretty sure was an older model Ford hatchback -- came screaming out of nowhere to swerve around them. He remembered one of the headlights -- the right one, he thought -- was out. The car passed him and then slowed down, and tried to cut him off while the driver waved his fist and screamed at him from behind his window. Jannel was scared, but Josh told her just to ignore the idiot. 

But the guy would not be ignored. He followed them, cutting in front and behind them, trying to get Josh to chase him or something. Josh went faster and faster, trying to avoid the lunatic, who by then had his window down and was screaming obscenities at them. As he screeched a right turn onto Fowler, Josh heard popping sounds; suddenly, the glass on the passenger side window shattered, and his car shook with other impacts from the rear. The car skidded out of control, spun once, and came to rest against the curb in front of the 7-11's parking lot. His door flew open as the front end of the car nearly went into the pavement, and Jannel's body flopped into his. The next thing he remembered clearly was waking up in the hospital. 

Josh made a good witness, and was able to fill in a lot of blanks in what had happened. He was also pretty sure he could describe the man who had shot into his car and killed his fiancee well enough for a police sketch artist to draw. 

Turning the tape recorder off, Blair worked to calm the two young people down while Jim conferred with Gibson and a reluctant Glover. "We'll need interviews with both sets of parents," Gibson said quietly. "And I'd like to get the sister's statement too, since she was at the announcement and had introduced them." 

"Yeah, that's good," Glover said, and Jim nodded. "It does sound like a random shooting, I guess, Ellison," he admitted, grudgingly. 

Jim nodded, overlooking the reluctance of the admission. "Let's get Hernandez and her pad up here to talk to the kid," he said. "The sooner we get a sketch, the sooner we can find this bastard." 

It was just after three o'clock by the time the sketch artist had her drawing. Gibson and Fusilli took it to make copies and fax out to the wire services, Fusilli making the announcement to the press. Jim was beginning to burn out, and he could tell Blair wasn't much better. They waited for Gibson, Blair perched on a nearby desk and Jim standing just in front of him. 

Glover came over with a list of names and addresses in a manila folder. "Okay, I've got appointments with the Hallyard kid's parents, and I'll keep trying the deceased's family, but I should be able to get to them by tomorrow. They were both students at the U, so we'll have to go over and canvass for their friends and stuff." 

Jim glanced at Sandburg, who nodded. "Yeah, I agree, and since this guy was out so late, maybe a check of various bars along Ocean would be a good idea too. Maybe he was hanging at a bar beforehand." 

Grimacing sourly, Glover said, "Yeah, I guess that's a good idea; there are a lot of little rinky-dink places down by Ocean and I-90." 

"As for the University, Sandburg and I can --" 

Glover cut Jim off abruptly. "You'll do what I tell you to do, Ellison," he snapped. "Remember who's in charge of this operation. We're gonna keep it professional, here," he added, glaring again at Blair. 

Frowning, Jim fought to contain the anger that had been simmering in him most of the day. "I understand you're in charge, Glover, I was just saying that Sandburg and I have --" 

Slamming the folder he carried on the nearest desk, causing those around him to jump, Glover went off. "This is not a fucking _field trip_ , Detective," he ground out, clearly losing it. "This is a _murder investigation_. I don't know -- and I don't care -- how Banks runs his ship, but down here, we keep work and --" he sneered at Blair "-- _play_ separate from each other." 

That was it. Jim felt his blood boil and his fists clench, and he literally saw red. But before he could even so much as twitch a nerve in his jaw, he was shoved aside by his short, furiously snarling bantam-weight partner, who proceeded to get right into Glover's face. "Oh, I have HAD it with you, man!" Blair spat, poking the slightly taller man in the chest with one finger. "You listen up and you listen well, my friend. I may not carry a gun and shield, but I earn a goddamn paycheck here the same as you do. I may not have twenty-five years' worth of donuts under my belt, but I've been a part of this force for four years, and I _know_ what I'm _doing_. If you have something to say about my abilities or lack thereof, you say it to _me_. _Not_ to my partner, _not_ to my captain -- to _me_. Have I made myself perfectly clear?" 

Blair backed Glover up until he was trapped by a desk behind him. Glover's face was red and his jaw was working, but before he could get a word out, a soft voice floated over the tableau. "Just what the hell is going on here?" Captain Fusilli asked. 

Glover backed off somewhat, but Blair didn't move. In the same low, growling tone he'd used to ream out Glover, he replied, "Just a little misunderstanding, Captain. But I think I've encouraged Detective Glover to see a different side to it." 

"I see." Fusilli approached the two men, taking in the appearance of both, then turned a frown on Glover. "My office, Glover. Right now." 

Glaring back at Blair, Glover followed his captain. As soon as the door closed behind them, Blair deflated like a day-old balloon and shook his head. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered under his breath. Jim put one hand under his hair around his neck, and gave him a little shake. 

"You were brilliant, Chief," he said softly. "That was just what that asshole needed." 

"I let my temper get the best of me, Jim," Blair murmured, slumping back into the hand on his neck. 

"So? So did he. Sometimes, that's what's needed, a show of strength," Jim continued, herding them out of the Homicide squad room. "I mean, normally -- most days -- I'm very glad to have opposable thumbs, you know, but there sure are times when I think those animals you see on the Discovery channel have the right idea. And this is one of them, Chief." 

"Oh, so what, now you're going to start calling me Tarzan?" Blair's voice was exhausted, but Jim could hear the tiniest spark of humor in there. 

"Just don't start swinging from the loft railing, okay, Cheetah?" he replied blandly, opening the door to the stairwell for his partner. 

Blair started up the stairs, shaking his head. "I think I preferred Tarzan, man." 

Half-way up the flight of steps, Jim reached out and grabbed Blair's arm. Without protest, Blair allowed himself to be pulled into a hug, returning it as well. "Tarzan or Cheetah, Chief. Makes no difference to me," Jim murmured. 

"Makes a difference to Glover," Blair said from his spot buried deep in Jim's neck. 

Jim cocked his head a bit, then smirked. "Maybe, but he'd better not say it any more. Fusilli is ripping him a new one as we speak." 

Blair barked in laughter. "Oh, man, that is like _so_ unethical." 

"Maybe, but fun," Jim replied. Blair yawned, and Jim ruffled his hair fondly. "You're exhausted, Sandburg. Go home, catch some z's. Make your pet wildman some dinner." 

Turning in Jim's arms, Blair continued to trudge up the steps. "You sure, man?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jim said, following. "I'm pretty whacked too. I'm going to make some calls, follow up on a couple of leads, and go home myself. We're not going to do anything else on the murder case today." Then he stopped and smacked himself in the forehead. "Except we came in together. Oh, never mind, take the truck." 

Blair held the door open for Jim this time, laughing. "No, no, man, it's what, three-thirty? Shift change downstairs. I can get a ride with somebody. Besides, you might need the truck." 

"You sure?" Jim asked. 

Blair nodded and smiled. "Yeah, I'm sure. Come home soon, _Jane_. _Tarzan_ will be waiting with foraged berries." 

Jim aimed a half-hearted smack at Blair's head, but missed. 

* * *

Despite his best intentions, it was well after eight before Jim made it home that evening. It was probably a blessing that the elevator was down -- again -- since he might have simply fallen asleep on the way to the third floor. 

On automatic pilot, he opened the door, put his keys in the basket, hung up his coat, and walked into Blair's arms. 

Blair's arms? 

"Mmm," he sighed into Blair's hair, "I thought you would have gone to bed already." 

"Well, you have excellent timing, sir," Blair replied wearily, "because as soon as I put away the chili I was heading in that direction." 

Jim breathed deep, finally identifying the tantalizing aroma. "You cooked chili? After all that happened today?" 

Releasing him, Blair took a bowl down from the cupboard and began spooning still-warm chili into it. "Naw," he said, "this is from A Cut Above. Here. I'll slice you a chunk of bread and bring you some milk. Go eat." 

Taking the bowl and sitting at the table, Jim began eating. Blair brought him his milk and bread, then put the rest of the chili into Tupperware for storage and cleaned up the kitchen. "I didn't have _time_ to cook chili, or even to nap," Blair said, his voice a tired monotone. "I caught a ride home with Serena, but when I got home I realized we'd used up the last of the coffee this morning. So I went to the store, and stopped at A Cut Above and got a half-gallon of chili. Oh, and by the way, they already have the composite of our bad guy up -- I saw it at the Safeway, and it was on the news too. Anyway, after my shower, I realized I had _no_ clean underwear, and you probably didn't either, so I figured I'd better do a couple of loads of laundry. Then --" 

"Chief," Jim interrupted, taking his hand and drawing him down to a chair at the table, "you didn't have to do all that. It could have waited." 

Blair waved him off, but slumped in the chair next to his. "No, no, it had to be done, and since you're the one who's actually working around here..." 

Ripping his bread apart with unnecessary force, Jim growled, "That goddamn prick. Sandburg, I don't care what Glover said, you pull your weight at the station. You _know_ that." 

"Jim..." 

"You _do_. You sure pull more of your own weight than that fat slob does of his, anyway," Jim insisted. Blair smiled, leaned his cheek on one fist and caressed Jim's forearm with the other. 

"I know you think so, Jim," Blair said, "but you know, in a big way, Glover's right. I'm not a cop, I'm a civilian. That means I'm your subordinate -- I'm at your beck and call. You get to call the shots on when and how deeply I'm involved in your work, when you'll listen to my opinions and when you won't. I don't have the authority to arrest anyone, I don't carry a weapon -- well, except for maybe my mouth --" Jim snorted in amusement "-- and all the report writing, all the experience in the world as a _civilian observer_ doesn't make me equal to you. In any way." 

Jim put his empty glass down and looked at his partner sadly. "I disagree with that," he said, softly. "Is that really how you think of us?" 

"Of _us_?" Blair inquired mildly. "Define _us_ , Jim. There's the _us_ at the station, and the _us_ at the loft, and the _us_ when we're out with the guys, and..." 

"Okay, okay, point taken," Jim interrupted with a weak grin, then used the last of his bread to sop up the last of his chili. Before he popped the mess into his mouth, he added, "I'd like to think that all the _us_ are the same." 

Shaking his head, Blair said, "Real life, my friend, real life forces it to be otherwise. If wishes were fishes, you know. Look..." Nervously, he traced the breadcrumbs on the tabletop with one finger. "I know you don't _mean_ to treat me as your subordinate, but sometimes, you just do it, you know." 

Not being able to think of an immediate response to that, Jim quietly picked up his dishes and moved them to the sink. 

"I mean, I'm younger, I'm smaller, I'm a civilian, and social conditioning just..." Blair continued. 

"And just who always gets his way around here?" Jim shot back, scowling at Blair in mock annoyance. 

Blair let out a startled snort. "Uh, point taken," he chuckled. Sobering, he continued, "Still, it does get old to have to push every time, you know." 

"Yeah," Jim said softly, "I know." 

Just then the phone rang, causing them both to jump. Laughing sheepishly, Blair reached for the phone. "If it's Simon, I'll tell him we're in Bolivia under assumed names. Chez Ellison-Sandburg, the latter speaking," he said into the phone. His look of trepidation faded as soon as he heard the voice on the other end. "Oh, hi, Stephen. Sure. Hang on." 

Passing Jim the phone with a smile, Blair headed toward the bathroom. "Hey, bro, you back?" Jim asked. 

"Jim! No, dammit, I'm not," Stephen said, his voice sounding fuzzy and long-distance. "Actually, I'm in Kentucky." 

"Kentucky? What the hell are you doing there?" Jim propped the phone against his shoulder as he rinsed out his dishes and set them to drain. 

"You hear about what's been going on with foals? All of the thoroughbreds dying? Well, guess who got ordered to go fix it," Stephen answered sourly. "Not that I _can_ or anything -- it's not like I'm a vet." 

"Pig experience notwithstanding," Jim said dryly. Stephen laughed. "Don't laugh or I'll send you one of the many stuffed and ceramic pigs that have mysteriously begun appearing on my desk." 

"Oh, you're kidding." 

"I work with a strange bunch of people, bro," Jim replied, drying his hands and turning out the light in the kitchen. 

"Then you should fit right in," Stephen shot back. 

"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up at the old man's expense," Jim said. "I guess this means you won't be back by tomorrow." 

"No way, big brother," Stephen sighed. "Can I take a rain-check? Maybe make it this weekend?" 

"Sure," Jim said easily. "I'll call Mom... wow. Doesn't that sound weird?" 

"Yeah, it does," Stephen said, a note of wonder in his voice. "We've got a mom again, don't we?" 

"Yeah," Jim said, the smile on his face evident in his voice, "we do. And isn't it nice? Anyway, it might be for the best, since Blair and I are heavily into a bad murder case." 

"Oh, like _this_ is different?" Stephen laughed. "Listen, they're yelling for me, I gotta go. I'll call you when I get back into town, okay?" 

"Sounds good, Stephen. Have fun with all the fillies," Jim teased, and got a raspberry in return. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim had seen Blair climb the stairs for bed as he spoke to Stephen. So while he called his mother, he went around the loft, locking up and turning off. Grace was disappointed that their dinner had been postponed, and Jim reassured her that they would reschedule as soon as Stephen got back into town. 

"And how's Blair?" Grace asked. 

"He's fine. A little exhausted. Actually, I am, too. We haven't had any sleep the last couple of nights, either of us," Jim explained. 

"Another case?" Grace asked. 

"Afraid so. Well, there's always something. And Blair, he... he's trying to work on his diss, at the same time he's putting in as many hours into the police stuff as I do. I just don't know how he keeps going, sometimes." 

"And I bet taking care of _you_ takes up the greatest chunk of his time, right?" 

Startled, Jim laughed. "How'd you know, Mom?" 

"He's just that kind of person, always taking care of other people. I've known a few people like that in my lifetime." Grace said, her voice also carrying a hint of laughter. Jim felt the voice soak into his soul -- all these years, he'd barely remembered her voice, yet hearing it now made him realize he'd missed it deeply all along. 

"He's so good to me, Mom. He's the best thing that's ever happened to me," Jim said, marveling at how easy it was to admit it to Grace. 

"Tell that to the man, not to me," said Grace, her voice now ringing with laughter. "Good night, Jimmy. Sleep well. I love you." 

"Thanks, Mom. I -- uh, I love you too. Night." 

Jim set the phone back on the charger and hit the bathroom. Stripping, he put everything in the hamper, decided he was too tired to shower, and padded naked up the stairs to the loft. Blair had left the lamp on his table on, and it cast a warm glow over the bedroom. Blair looked nearly asleep, but when Jim opened a drawer for clean boxers, his eyes cracked open. "I'll give you a nickel if you keep 'em off," he mumbled sleepily. 

Stepping into the shorts, Jim just chuckled. "Like either of us could do anything with that," he said, turning off the light and slipping into bed. To his pleasure, Blair immediately rolled over and snuggled up against him, wrapping strong arms around his torso. Jim sighed in happiness and began relaxing, finally. 

"Oh, almost forgot," Blair murmured, pulling back just enough to be heard. "Stacey called tonight too." 

Jim nuzzled into Blair's hair. "Damn, sorry I missed her. How's our favorite sleeping beauty?" 

"She's fine, just..." Blair broke off to allow a monstrous yawn out "...decided she's going to stay with Marian for the summer. But she still wants to come home for a week or so in August, before the fall term starts." 

"Good," Jim mumbled, nearly asleep. "I'll call her tomorrow and get some time worked out, so I can take it off. Maybe we can all go camping again." 

"Ummm..." Blair said muzzily. "She'd like tha'... She likes your fried trout..." 

"So d'you," Jim replied, tipping over into a sleep filled with dreams of sunshine, trout fishing, and two of his favorite people in the world with him and under his protection. What more could a Sentinel ask for? 

* * *

Wednesday started far too early, with a call at 6:30 from Gibson. "We're flooded with responses to the news release," he told a sleepy -- but better-rested -- Jim. "We've got to get on the interview circuit. Roy and I will handle the parents, and you could help sort the tips and do the campus." 

"Okay, that's fine," Jim said, yawning and scratching his backside. He was downstairs in the still-dim loft, having left Blair asleep. "Send me an email. We'll be there shortly and go through it." Hanging up the phone, he started coffee and went into the bathroom for his shower. 

When he emerged, Blair was hunched over a cup of coffee at the table. Jim dropped a kiss on his wildly frazzled hair and received a grunt in return. "There's been a break," Jim told him, jogging upstairs to get dressed. "We need to get into the station and start the shitwork. You up to it today, Cheetah?" 

The balled-up napkin that sailed over the railing to smack him on the back was his only answer. 

* * *

There had been over 300 calls the night before, after the sketch was released. Jim and Blair spent part of the morning returning calls and weeding out the obvious wackos, then left for the campus to interview the victim's friends and fellow students. As expected, Jannel Patterson was well-liked, her friends were all devastated over her death, and no one could imagine her incurring the wrath of anyone, let alone enough wrath to be killed. 

At eleven, they were at the Rusty Scupper, a restaurant/lounge down by Watertown, the 'reclaimed' portion of the docks. It was a legacy place, left over from before the gentrification of the dock area, a holdout from a less savory time. The manager of the place had called in after seeing the sketch, leaving word he would be at work after eleven in the morning. 

Joe Buscemi was a big, balding man with big, stubbly jowls and red, blood-shot eyes, making him look hung-over. Blair and Jim caught him just after he opened, and he settled them at the bar. He was smoking and already nursing a beer. 

"Yeah, that's Eric," he said, looking at the drawing Jim handed him. "Goddamn idiot. He's already on my shit list after Monday night, and not showing up for work yesterday. Doesn't surprise me at all." 

Blair traded looks with Jim. "What do you mean, it doesn't surprise you?" Blair asked. 

"Just that he's a shithead. Half the time he doesn't show up on time, and he was on probation with me anyway," Buscemi explained. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "I hadda throw him out of the place Monday night for picking a fight after work. Then he never shows for work yesterday. Bastard." 

"Can you tell us what happened Monday?" Jim asked. Blair was already jotting down notes. 

"He had the four to eleven shift," Buscemi said. "I think he was already half-plotzed by the time his shift ended, but he did his work, so I'm not gonna complain. So he gets off and starts in some serious drinking. Then he picks a fight, and I threw him out. End of story." 

"What time did you give him the rush, Mr. Buscemi?" Blair looked up expectantly. 

"Lessee." Buscemi stared at the ceiling for a bit, rubbing the bristles on his chin. "Had to have been about midnight. Maybe 12:30. No later than that, 'cause I left at one and let Tim close for me. You might want to talk to Tim, him and Eric are tight." 

"Okay," Jim said, checking to make sure Blair got all that. "We can do that. Who'd he pick the fight with?" 

"Ah, some guy. I don't know. Not one of my regulars." 

"Who is the regular crowd around here, now that you mention it?" Blair asked. "Bikers, teamsters...?" 

"Nah, nothing like that. It's a mix. We get a real cross-section, you know?" Buscemi stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, giving the detectives a gruesome smile. 

"So Eric had a problem with this new guy?" Jim offered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blair get what he was driving at. "Does he run with any crowd we ought to be aware of, Mr. Buscemi?" 

"Huh?" 

"Gangs?" Blair looked up from his notepad. "White supremacist groups? Anything like that?" 

Buscemi did a spit-take and laughed out loud. "Eric? Shit, no, he's too dumb. Don't have the dedication those boys want in their rank and file." He sniffed loudly, turned, and spit on the floor. "I seem to remember him dating a Chinese girl," he mused. "'Course, that was three or four girlfriends ago. So you see what I mean." 

"Yes, we do," Jim said, smiling tightly, kissing the racial-motivation angle goodbye. "Thank you for your time, sir. Do you happen to have addresses and phone numbers where we can reach Eric and... Tim?" 

"Sure. Gimme a minute. They won't be in until six, so you're better off going to their houses anyway." 

It took Buscemi a few minutes to find the information in his cluttered office, but before noon they were out of the Rusty Scupper and on their way back to the station. "I'm starved," Blair said; "let's stop at a Mr. Tube Steak and grab some lunch on our way back." 

"Wonderburger means we don't have to get out of the car, Chief," Jim said, smiling a bit. 

"You are SO transparent, man," Blair laughed. Jim gave him a puppy-dog look and mimed, _who me?_ "All right all right, I'm too hungry to care anyway." 

With their bags of food, they made it back into the station at about the same time Glover and Gibson came back from their interviews. They compared notes as they ate quickly, Glover carefully avoiding even looking at Blair. 

"The parents are a dead-end," Gibson said, chewing on noodles from a box. "No joy there. But we got another tip from a bar on Ocean that might pan out." 

"I think we might have a suspect," Jim said, blotting his mouth on a napkin. "We're going to go talk to this Tim Van something... what is it, Chief?" 

"Van Slandt. Guy works with a dude named Eric Cerkez, and their boss says our composite is Cerkez," Blair replied. 

"Cerkez?" Glover said. "How you spell that?" Blair spelled it for him. "That might be the guy then. Our tip mentioned an Eric something, sounded like jerks." 

The four men shared looks. "We'll go talk to the co-worker, then call you," Jim said. He snatched up his half-finished shake. "You ready, Chief? You got your cells charged, guys?" 

Blair crammed the last of his french fries in his mouth and followed Jim to the elevator. "You got the address, Chief?" Jim asked, punching the button. 

"Mumph," Blair replied, waving his notebook around. With effort, he swallowed and then said, "We going to call him first?" 

"Nah," Jim said as they exited the elevator. "Let's surprise him." 

* * *

And surprise him they did. If Tim Van Slandt had been awake when they knocked, he hadn't been awake for long; he stared muzzily at Jim's ID from the cracked-open door. "Yeah?" he asked, blinking in the light from the hallway outside his apartment. "Whaddaya want?" 

"Just to ask you some questions, Mr. Van Slandt," Jim replied, tucking his ID away. 

"'Bout what?" No, Blair decided, Mr. Van Slandt had not been awake long. 

"Do you know a Mr. Eric Cerkez?" Jim asked, sighing, apparently resigned to standing in the hallway at least for the moment. 

"Eric? Yeah, I work with him. Why? What's the damn fool done now?" 

Blair caught Jim's raised eyebrows and shook his head. "Can we come in, Mr. Van Slandt? It'd be a lot easier than talking to you through a door," Blair said. 

"Yeah, yeah, all right, hang on." The door closed, and they could hear a chain being removed; then it opened again. The apartment was utter chaos -- pizza boxes and stacks of newspapers everywhere, dirty clothes strewn about. Blair had to fight back a giggle at the look on Jim's face as he took it all in. "So whaddaya want to know?" Van Slandt asked, dropping on his filthy couch. He grunted as he did so, then reached beneath him and pulled out a can of beer. 

"Dial it down, man," Blair murmured, and Jim shot him a dirty look. 

"We're making inquiries into an event that happened Monday night," Jim said. "Mr. Joe Buscemi told us we might want to discuss it with you." 

"Oh, is this about Bushy tossing Eric out? Yeah, Eric got a bit too much in him again and went off on some asshole in the Scupper Monday after he got off work," Van Slandt said, resting his head back against the couch back. "Bushy tossed him about midnight." 

"So, it appeared that Mr. Cerkez had too much to drink?" Jim said, glancing at Blair to make sure he was taking notes. 

Van Slandt snorted. "Drink, snort, shoot, who the hell knows what that pinhead was doing? All's I know is, I told him I'd meet him at the Rooster after I closed up. But when I got there, he was gone." 

"The Rooster? You mean the bar on Ocean?" Blair asked. That was the name of the bar Gibson and Glover had gotten their tip at. 

"Yeah, we hang out there a lot. He'd been there, all right, busted up the joint, but he was gone by the time I got there," Van Slandt said. "Guy's a serious fuckup, you know what I mean? He's always getting into trouble." 

"Do you know if Mr. Cerkez carries a gun?" Jim asked. 

"Yeah," Van Slandt said, lifting his head and looking at Jim. "Yeah, he's like heavily into firearms. That and computers. He's always bragging about some new CPU or Winchester he's picked up. One weird dude." 

"What kind of car does he drive, do you know?" Blair asked. 

"Oh, I dunno, it's some old piece of shit," Van Slandt replied, laying his head back down. Looks like one of those old Pintos. Look, are we done here? I got a lot of work to do around here." 

"Ah, yeah," Jim replied, rolling his eyes. "You've been very helpful. Thanks." 

Van Slandt waved his hands. "Yeah, whatever. Let yourself out, dudes." 

Out in the fresh air, Blair chuckled as Jim stood still, taking deep breaths. "Not exactly up to your standards, eh, man?" Blair asked him. 

Jim shot him a sour look and pulled his cell phone out. "Even the bacteria had bacteria in there, Chief," he said. "I think we got cause here. Next stop is Cerkez's place. Hey, Gibson? Ellison. Yeah, we got cause, the co-worker confirmed a lot of it. We're on our way now. You going to meet us there?" 

* * *

Eric Cerkez lived in a shabby neighborhood consisting of very old, small, brick houses with tiny yards. Most of the houses were poorly maintained, and the yards consisted of dirt and scraggly plants. A few were looked after, but Cerkez's was not one of them. 

There was no car in the driveway as they pulled up, but Jim confirmed there was someone in the house. Gibson and Glover appeared within five minutes and parked behind the truck; Jim and Blair met them as they exited their sedan. "Co-worker says he's into firearms," Jim reported in a low voice. "We could have a situation." 

"Roy and I'll take the back," Gibson said, drawing his gun and moving around to the side. "I don't think there's an egress back there, but we'll check." 

Nodding, Jim and Blair moved cautiously up the cracked walk to the front door. A television was blasting from inside, but when Jim knocked, someone turned it down. The door cracked open to reveal an older woman, her graying hair in curlers, dressed in a patched and dirty housedress. "Yeah?" 

"Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD, ma'am," Jim said, showing his credentials. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We're looking for Eric Cerkez." 

The woman scowled around her cigarette. "He ain't here. Dumb shit, what'd he do now?" 

"We're just looking to talk to him, ma'am. Do you have any idea where he might be?" Gibson appeared around the corner from the back of the house, shaking his head. 

"Probably with that slut Sherry. He only comes home here to mooch offa me and do his laundry," she said. 

"Are you a relative of his, ma'am?" Jim asked, looking through the ratty screen door past her into the house as much as he could. 

"Yeah, I'm his mother," the woman said sourly. "Not that he shows it or anything." 

"We'd like to come in and take a look around, if you don't mind, then," Jim said. With his Sentinel sight he could make out a rifle leaning against the wall inside. 

Cerkez's mother regarded him narrowly. "You got a warrant?" she finally demanded. "I know my rights, and you can't come in without a warrant." 

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to resort to that, ma'am," Jim said levelly. He could see Glover now, too, coming around from the other side. 

"Yeah, I just bet you were, honey. Get lost." With that, she slammed the door. Blair shook his head and backed off the stoop. 

"No luck?" Gibson asked. Glover came to stand next to him, and Blair made to cut across the lawn to the truck. 

"I don't think he's here, but his mother won't let us in without a warrant," Jim said. "You think we've got enough here to get one?" 

Before either Glover or Gibson could answer, Blair called out. "Hey, guys, c'mere." He was squatting on the lawn, with a twig in his hand, poking at something. 

"What? What've you got, Chief?" Jim asked, automatically reaching in his pocket for his latex gloves. 

"Looks like a shell casing," Blair replied. "Bet it matches what was found on the scene." 

"Don't touch it, you moron!" Glover growled, and Blair gave him a nasty look. 

"I'm not touching it, man, take a pill. I know better than that, okay? What do you think, Jim?" 

With his gloved hand, Jim picked up the casing. "It's nine millimeter all right. Winchester. We need to get this to forensics to see if it matches." Gibson handed him a baggie and the casing went in it. "If it matches, I'd say that's enough probable cause for an arrest warrant." 

"We'll take it," Glover said, pocketing the bagged evidence. "You two stay here and stake it out. If Cerkez shows, holler. We'll at least get that search warrant and be back as soon as we can." 

* * *

As stake-outs went, it wasn't much of one, Blair mused, dozing against the window of the truck. Jim fiddled with the radio until he found a day-game. Neither man felt much like talking, so they sat in companionable silence listening to the Cubs get slaughtered. After a half-hour, they got a call from the station that the warrant was in the works, should only be another half-hour, forty-five minutes, tops. Jim's hand somehow found its way across the bench seat to take Blair's, and they smiled at each other. 

Then, much to their surprise, Eric Cerkez came home. It took them a few minutes to register that the dirty white Chevy Chevette hatchback was indeed going to the Cerkez house, and to realize that the young man who exited and walked into the house was indeed their suspect. They blinked at each other and Jim fumbled for the phone. "It _can't_ be that easy, can it?" Blair murmured, as Jim reached Gibson and Glover, who were on their way with the warrant. 

The two of them pulled the truck back up to the house and got out, once again crossing the yard and mounting the stoop. Jim knocked again, and Blair could see by the tension in his shoulders that he was ready for anything. 

It was the young man who answered. "Yeah?" he said, frowning at them through the screen door. 

"Detective Ellison, Cascade PD," Jim announced, showing his badge. "Are you Eric Cerkez?" 

"Yeah?" Cerkez looked between the two of them. "Is this a joke?" 

"We'd like to talk to you, Mr. Cerkez, regarding your whereabouts early Tuesday morning." 

"Uh, okay, why? I mean, what'd I do?" 

Blair turned as Gibson and Glover screeched up, followed by a patrol unit. He murmured, "A bit overkill, wouldn't you say?" soft enough so that only Jim would hear, and could almost see Jim fighting to keep a smile off his face. 

Cerkez watched the approach of the police with wide-eyed amazement, looking from the spectacle on the street to the two men on his front porch. "Mr. Cerkez, we'd like you to come down to the station with us and answer some questions," Blair said, taking the initiative when Jim didn't speak. "It's just a formality. Would you come with us, please?" 

"Uh, yeah, okay, I guess. I mean, what's going on?" Cerkez seemed to be extremely dim, which just might count in their favor. 

Blair ushered him out, holding the screen door for him while Jim stood guard. The mother appeared, screeching something about a warrant, while her son winced and shouted, "Ma! Shut up!" Gibson and Glover came up, the warrant in hand, and Glover proceeded to show it to the woman. 

Jim and Blair turned Cerkez over to the uniforms, telling the young man they'd see him at the station, then turned to Gibson. "The casing matched," Gibson said softly. "We pulled his records, and he's registered as owning a nine millimeter Glock, as well as half a dozen other weapons. We've got a warrant for the house and the car, why don't you get started on his interrogation?" 

"Sounds good, thanks," Jim said, smiling. "We'll meet you back there." 

Blair climbed into the truck shaking his head. "What, Chief?" Jim asked, starting the engine. 

"It was that easy? I mean, considering the kind of case we -- I mean you -- usually handle, this was like dirt easy." 

"The kind of case _we_ usually handle is more complex, yes," Jim said. "That's why we get the big bucks, I guess," he added, making a u-turn and heading back downtown. 

"Big bucks. Ha ha. Yeah. Funny man, you are," Blair replied, grinning. 

"So you're saying I shouldn't quit my day job?" Jim quipped. 

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Blair said. 

* * *

Eric Cerkez was quite positive he couldn't have killed anybody. "I mean, I do it all the time on video games, you know? But in real life? Nah. I'm sure I couldn't," he said confidently. Not, of course, that he could remember where he was after being tossed out of the Rooster early Tuesday. Or that he could remember what route he had used to get home. 

"Mr. Cerkez," Jim said wearily, "do you remember anything of Monday night or Tuesday morning?" 

"Yeah, sure, I, uh, well, I was at work. Yeah. Oh! And Bushy, I mean, Mr. Buscemi, he threw me out for some damn reason. Guy's got a short fuse, you know, but the pay isn't bad. Tim told me he'd meet me at the Rooster after he closed up, so I went there." 

"And what happened then?" Jim prodded. 

"Well, you know, party time. Shot some pool, had some beer. There was some guy there being a real dick. Nothing big. I might've messed with him a little, but I mostly blew him off, 'cause, you know, I just can't stand guys being dicks like that." Cerkez slumped in the seat, draping his arm over the back. 

"You can't." Jim scribbled on the pad in front of him. Cerkez watched, unconcerned. 

"No. We were having a good time, an' that guy was..." Cerkez shrugged and waved it off. "So I went home. Party's no fun if people get pissy over nothin'. I signed on and checked my mail. Went to bed. End of story." 

"See anyone on your way home?" Jim asked evenly. 

"Nope. Clear shot all the way home." Cerkez drew one finger straight through the air, then let his arm fall back over the chair. 

Blair said mildly, "Pretty quiet that time of night. You didn't hit the construction out at Rigby?" 

Cerkez hesitated. "You trying to trick me? There wasn't nothing going on. I just went home same way I always do." 

"And you don't recall the construction zone at Ocean and Rigby?" To Blair, Jim's voice sounded incredulous, and hell, he might be able to put up some disbelief himself. This guy was spectacularly dim. 

Now Cerkez was uncertain. "There's...? No, I mean, I do remember getting home, cause I logged on and went into chat, and oh, somebody cut me off on my way home, I think, but that's about it." 

"Uh-huh. Mr. Cerkez, do you own a nine-millimeter gun?" 

"Yeah, yeah!" He sat up straight, pulling his hands together, then apart to show the size. "It's a beaut, too. A Glock. Got it with some bonus money." Cerkez looked them in the eye for the first time since the interview started. 

"Where do you keep this weapon, Mr. Cerkez?" Jim asked, endlessly patient. 

"In my car." Cerkez leaned forward and mimed shoving something under the chair. "You know, close by, for protection. Cascade is like getting really violent anymore. And there's been lots of car-jackings and stuff." 

Nodding, his mouth hanging slightly open, Jim said, "Ahhh... yeah, that's fair to say. Do you remember firing your gun at anyone at about 2:30 a.m. Tuesday morning?" 

" _At_ somebody?" Cerkez looked almost shocked. "No, I'm sure I'd remember that. I mean, I wouldn't actually _fire_ it at somebody. I usually use it to scare off the lousy drivers, you know the ones, they cut you off in traffic, beep their horns at you, shine their brights in your eyes, that kind of stuff. They know who's boss when they see it. Oh, and I shoot at the rats that hang around the dumpsters at work. But I'd never actually shoot someone with it." 

Blair leaned back in his chair, stunned. 

"So, you're saying you've threatened people with your gun before," Jim said, his voice carrying that low quality that Blair recognized as his 'don't fuck with me' voice. 

"Well... you can't really call it that -- I mean, they're the ones being dickheads and all. I'm just trying to get them to drive better. You know? I'd never actually use it on them. Never have to." 

"Uh-huh. Okay, ah..." Before Jim could formulate his next question, the door opened to reveal Gibson, who waved Jim out of the room. "Hold that thought, Mr. Cerkez, I'll be right back." 

Out in the hallway, they were confronted with a grinning pair of Homicide detectives. "Got him," Glover exulted. "We recovered a nine mil, two Winchester shotguns, three pistols of various calibers, and a semi-automatic. We've impounded his car, and Forensics has got it, but I think we've got a match -- the bullet tests will be done within the hour. Plus, we found enough coke and X in his car to float any idiot for quite a while. He's going down." 

Jim was shaking his head, a frown on his face. "I -- I don't know, Glover, something about this..." 

"What? We've got him _cold_ ," the cop shot back. 

"Unless one of those nine-milimeters is the murder weapon, it's all circumstantial," Jim protested. "And he says he wouldn't have done it." 

"Wouldn't have done it?" Gibson said, incredulous. "As in, he doesn't remember? That's bullshit." 

"Look, the guy is dumb as dirt, no one's disputing that. I just don't know..." Jim was twitching, rubbing the back of his neck, constantly turning back towards the room where Cerkez waited. 

Gibson and Glover were obviously losing patience with Jim's odd behavior, so Blair spoke up. "Listen, guys, go in there, finish getting the statement, talk to him. We'll be in the observation room. C'mon, Jim." 

Blair hustled his partner into the other room, shutting the door firmly behind them. Through the one-way glass, they could see the other two detectives enter the room and begin speaking to Cerkez. 

"Jim, what the hell are you doing?" Blair hissed. "What's going on with you?" 

Jim shook his head slowly, side to side, as he watched the other room. "Chief, I believe him. I do. He never once spiked, at anything. He didn't do it." 

"He said he _couldn't_ have done it, Jim, that's far different than he _didn't_ do it. Why are you behaving like this?" 

"Look, Blair, all I know is what I can sense," Jim said, clear frustration in his voice. "My senses tell me he's telling the truth. Human lie detector, remember?" he added, frowning at Blair. 

Sighing, Blair shoved his hand into his hair, pulling it back. "Oh for... Okay. Let's take this one step at a time. You're saying your Sentinel senses are telling you he's not lying." 

"Right, right," Jim said, earnestly, propping one foot on a chair and leaning on his knee. 

Blair began pacing. "So your senses are telling you this. But what is your _instinct_ telling you, Jim?" 

"What, you mean like my senses or..." 

"No, no, your instincts as a _cop_ ," Blair qualified. "The instincts you honed well before your senses came back on-line. What are they telling you?" 

Jim scratched his head. "Um. Well, I guess I'd have to say that he's guilty as sin. I mean, the composite, the gun in the car, the drugs... everything stacks up, it all fits, Cerkez is the man. But..." 

"Jim," Blair said earnestly, taking Jim's upper arm in one hand, "you are not a cop because of your senses. You're a _better_ cop because of your senses, but under all that, under all the special powers you have at your beck and call, you're a cop first. You may be a walking forensics lab, but think about it: would you trust Serena to make a bust just because she's a top forensic analyst?" 

"No," Jim said, frowning, clearly considering Blair's words. "It takes more than just forensics to solve a case." 

"Exactly. I think what's happening here is that you're becoming too dependent on your senses to do your job. And that's just going too far in the other direction, Jim. Way too far." 

Jim grinned suddenly, lightly bopping Blair on the side of his head. "Thanks a lot, Darwin, _now_ you tell me!" 

Blair chuckled and gave the arm he still held a little shake. "Never thought I'd have to tell you to turn it off, huh? But you know I'm not," he added, releasing Jim and turning back to the glass. "You need to listen to what your senses tell you. But you also need to listen to what your inner cop says. You've got to balance, Jim." 

Straightening, Jim came to stand directly behind Blair, watching the scene in the other room. "You're my balance, Chief," he said, tugging on Blair's ponytail. "It's what makes us such a great team." 

* * *

Forensics came through with the bullet testing before Cerkez could wise up and demand a lawyer. To no one's surprise, Eric Cerkez's nine-millimeter Glock was indeed the gun that had fired upon and killed Jannel Patterson. It was a good bust; Gibson read the young man his rights and took him down for processing. 

Jim and Blair stood outside the interrogation room with Glover, watching a still-protesting Eric Cerkez being hauled down to booking. Glover had the smirk of the righteous on his face as he turned to his companions. "Well, that's done. Good turn-around time." 

Jim raised an eyebrow; could this guy get any more obnoxious? "Yeah, well, you're welcome," he said sourly. 

Glover gave them both the eye. "I didn't ask for your involvement in this case, Ellison, and I wouldn't have needed it to solve it either. Just so we're clear." 

"Yeah, I think we're clear," Jim said, letting his frustration bleed into his voice. "Very clear. You're a prick, and I'm glad we don't have to deal with you any more." 

"Jim, man..." Blair said, sotto voce, but Jim ignored him. Glover's eyes narrowed and his jaw worked as he stared at the two of them, visibly reining himself in. 

"You just toddle back upstairs to your precious Major Crimes, Ellison," he finally ground out. "And take your little buddy with you. We haven't got time for playacting down here." 

Jim took one step toward Glover, who, apparently suddenly realizing what kind of trouble he was in, backed up. But once again, Jim was pushed aside by Blair, who this time turned his back to Glover and looked into Jim's face. "Glover, just get the hell out of here, would you?" Blair said over one shoulder, his voice weary. "And do us both a favor and retire already. Before you really fuck up a case past anyone bailing you out." 

Entranced, Jim watched as Glover's face turned various shades from dark pink through purple and puce. Without saying another word, he turned and stalked down the hall. With a deep breath, Jim let out some of the tension he had been holding. "Asshole," he muttered. "Prick. Gives the department a bad name." 

"Yeah, well, you said that once already," Blair said, also slumping a bit as the tension left his body. 

"Jackass. You're three times the cop he'll ever be, badge or not." 

"Yeah, right, Jim," Blair said, and suddenly, at the defeat and resignation in Blair's tone, Jim just lost it. Or, perhaps, he got it. Finally. 

Grabbing his partner by the upper arm -- "Hey!" Blair yelped -- Jim propelled him back into the observation room. He shut the door and locked it, then leaned his back on it. "What the hell...?" Blair demanded. 

"Okay, before all this started, that night of the shooting, I had finally realized something," Jim growled. "I was going to talk about it yesterday, before we just collapsed, but I didn't. I should've said it when we were staking out Cerkez's house, but I didn't, because I was too much a damn chickenshit. But now I'm gonna say it, before I lose my nerve -- again -- and you're gonna listen, and not interrupt until I'm done. You hear me?" 

Blair narrowed his eyes, then took up an aggressive stance in front of Jim, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Fine," he said abruptly. "Talk then." 

Realizing that he might be able to talk better if he were moving -- and if he could avoid looking directly at Blair -- Jim began to pace the darkened room. "I know it's been rough on you. I know _I've_ been rough on you -- especially, especially during the Cordell case. I know how it rankles sometimes that you're not a cop, and don't have the training, or the authority, to do what you think you should. 

"I know I contradict myself so much, saying you're a good cop, offering you the actual job as my partner, and then still yelling at you to stay down, to stay safe. And it's wrong, Blair, God, it's so wrong. Because you _can_ take care of yourself; you've proven it over and over again. I'm just... I'm just..." Jim gulped, stopped his pacing and looked at the floor. "I'm afraid, Chief. I'm afraid of losing you, of not being able to protect you. I rely on you, I need you, for so much. You're... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Chief, and it terrifies me sometimes what we do, and how much danger my job puts you in." 

Jim heard Blair take a breath, as though he wanted to speak, but Jim held his hand up to stop him. "No, wait, I'm not done. I'm gonna get this out if it kills me." Turning, he began pacing again. "There are times, you know, when I wish I wasn't a cop. I think a lot of cops think that... every time we have to deal with some of the truly horrible parts of this job. I know what you've said about the genetic imperative and about me being the tribal protector, and you're right, you've been right every time, I know that, but, _damn_ , Blair. There are times when I hate this job." 

Jim came to a stop with his forehead pressed against the one-way mirror. "And then there are times when I love it," he continued, his voice softer. "A lot of those are when you and I are working together. As a team. You pulling facts out of your hat and me smelling something weird that solves the case. You really are the best partner I've ever had, Blair, bar none. And so help me God I'm going to start treating you as a partner. An equal partner. 

"But you gotta promise me, Chief, promise me you'll let me protect you. You _aren't_ a cop, not officially, anyway, and you don't carry a gun. Promise me you'll carry your damn cell phone with you, and keep it charged, and call me. If you can do that, I promise I'll back off and try to... try to listen more. To hear you more. Can you do that, Chief?" 

Finally, Jim turned and looked at Blair. What he saw nearly undid him: Blair stood rooted to the spot, his arms loose at his sides, his mouth hanging open and his face suffused with so much stunned delight that Jim thought he could box it and sell it as an antidepressant. 

Blair swallowed and shook his head slowly. "You just keep surprising me, Ellison," he whispered. "Just when I think I've got you figured out..." Slowly he bridged the gap between them, taking two handfuls of Jim's shirt and tugging him down. 

"So, uh, you okay with this then?" Jim asked, nervously licking his lips. 

"Yeah. I'm okay with it," Blair responded. "I love you, man." 

"I love you too, Chief," Jim said, kissing his partner gently. 

"I think we got some bad guys to chase down, don't we?" Blair murmured into the soft lips caressing his own. 

"They can wait a minute," Jim replied, enfolding Blair in a hug. Then he stiffened, cocking his head to one side. "But Simon might not. He's bellowing for me... I mean, us." 

Grinning brilliantly, Blair pulled back a bit. "Yeah. Us." 

"Let's go back where we belong, partner." 

"Right behind you, partner." 

And it wasn't even four o'clock yet. "We might get home at a decent hour tonight, Chief." 

"On the other hand, we might make a decent hour thoroughly indecent." 

Jim felt himself grin. "I like your thinking." 

"The sooner we finish the paperwork that's been gathering dust all week, the sooner we can leave." 

"Race you to the bullpen." 

* * *

This is exactly where he was supposed to be, Jim thought. On his back, on his bed, his legs being supported by Blair's hands and Blair buried deep inside him. The eight-dollar oversize pillow Blair had bought at K-Mart -- which they laughingly called the 'love pillow' -- supported Jim's back comfortably while he let one hand stroke his erection in time with the languid thrusts in his ass. Jim just let himself float in sensual bliss. God, it was so good. 

Had he said that aloud? He must have, because Blair was smiling down on him like a cat with a yellow-feathered mouth. "You're the one that's good, Ellison," Blair gasped, holding to an agonizingly slow, steady rhythm. In. Out. In. "God, you're tight. Feel so good." 

"Yeah, good, oh, so good, babe," Jim gasped as Blair's cock stroked over his prostate. "Damn, I love you." 

"I love you too, man, so much, oh, yeah," Blair threw his head back and groaned his pleasure. He stroked Jim's long legs sensuously, then reached down to caress the balls that lay bulged beneath Jim's penis. After a moment, Jim heard him say, "Damn. You are so hot. Do you have any idea what the sight of you does to me?" 

Opening eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed, Jim saw his lover gazing down at him with a glazed, lust-filled stare. Part of him wanted to actually _pose_ \-- to drive Blair wild -- and part just wanted to spread himself even wider and give himself wholly over to the man loving him. He pulled at his cock a little harder, then reached up to pinch, then rub, one nipple. 

Blair snapped his hips forward, driving deep, and Jim arched, groaning. "Yeah! Oh, Chief, Blair, yeah," he moaned. "Gonna make me come, gonna make me, yeah, oh God..." 

"Not yet, not yet," Blair chanted breathlessly, slowing and deepening his strokes. "Wanna keep this, wanna keep this moment, remember, damn, oh this is good..." 

Closing his eyes again, Jim let himself drift. He heard the small grunts Blair made as he held himself to his steady rhythm and heard his heart beating steady and strong. He could smell them, their lovemaking, the scent of semen and lube and sweat and latex and pheromones and just plain sex. He licked his lips, still tasting Blair's kisses, remembering how Blair had kissed him over and over again until both their lips were swollen and they were panting with desire. And he could feel Blair, feel every inch of his sheathed cock, the latex so thin as to be almost not there. The large vein on the underside of it rubbed over Jim's prostate, and he felt the flare of the head massaging him deeply. 

Adding the last sense to the catalog, Jim opened his eyes. Blair leaned over him, sheened in sweat, his head thrown back as his strong arms held up Jim's legs. Jim let his eyes drift downwards, taking in the wild hair; the long, dark eyelashes lying against prominent cheekbones; the sensuous mouth; the strong neck and shoulders; the broad chest with its shock of thick hair; the large, square hands holding his legs so gently; the well-defined abdomen trembling with pent-up passion. 

It was simply too much. "You... are... so... beautiful," he gasped in time with the thrusts, which were coming harder and faster now, "Blair... BLAIR!" Jim's come boiled up through him, seemingly drawing up from his feet as the top of his head came off. His back bowed and he went rigid with his intense orgasm; although his mouth was open, he was incapable of making any sound at all. 

As the aftershocks hit, he felt Blair ram into him hard, then heard him start keening as his thrusts became jerky and his own personal semi ran over him hard. Just the sight of Blair's intense pleasure was enough to bring another shock to Jim's abused nervous system. 

Almost as fast as they went rigid, all the tension drained out of their bodies, leaving them limp, sweaty, spunk-covered and sated. Blair drifted down, barely able to lever himself to one side of Jim rather than land on top of him. Jim turned his head and got himself a nose-full of curly, sweaty hair. 

After a while, their hearts slowed, their breathing normalized, and they realized they were sticky with body fluids. Unwilling to face the stairs, they grabbed a pair of discarded boxers, wiped the worst of it off, and settled back down, this time under the covers. Jim rolled them until Blair was mostly draped across Jim's broad chest, and Blair hummed in appreciation. "My favorite pillow," he mumbled, kissing Jim's collarbone. 

"Love you, Blair," Jim said, and smiled at the muttered reply. Blair was already asleep. 

Curiously, despite his languor and tiredness, sleep eluded Jim. He found himself once again going back over the events of the last few days. Particularly Monday night, after the Cordell case had been wrapped up, coming back to the loft to hear Blair talking to himself -- "But this reporter is sad to announce that the relationship between said Detective and his partner, Blair Sandburg, appears to be floundering. _Again_." Wasn't that what Blair had said? Yeah, or something like it. At the time, he'd just called Blair overly dramatic. But it wasn't, not really. Jim had been unconscionably harsh to Blair -- again -- and the only thing good to come out of it was Jim's resolution to do better. 

Could he? Taking a deep breath -- well, as deep as he could with Blair on his chest -- Jim realized he'd better do better. He'd just better quit thinking with his gut and start thinking with his head, and his heart. Damn, he just _had_ to. Or else he was going to lose the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

Once again, that sense of loss, of despair, rose up in Jim. He began making an effort to disentangle himself from the octopus formerly known as Blair, so he could get out of bed -- maybe pace a bit, maybe make some tea, maybe just wallow in feeling sorry for himself again. 

With a chuff of air, Blair's hands locked around his waist. "Chief? You awake?" Jim whispered, but all his senses told him Blair was dead to the world. But he was not letting go. 

He was not letting go. Blair would not let him go. Never would. Even in his sleep, the little twerp was taking care of him, Jim realized fondly. Smiling, he relaxed into the death grip Blair had on him, and shortly, to his surprise, fell asleep. 

* * *

End SVS-23: A Question of Intent by The Unusual Suspects: FiveSenses@egroups.com

Author and story notes above.

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the   
stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.

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